


Reflections

by dont_rainonmyparade



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Existing Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Smut, and they have a baby resembling the notebook, it's like the last five years musical, married!Bond, married!Q, meets james bond, this is one we're going in on the long haul for, you want it we got it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:10:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6397789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dont_rainonmyparade/pseuds/dont_rainonmyparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beginnings, and endings. It begins with what seems like the end of a love story. But what and where is the end, if only one person can remember the beginning?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Fundamental Truths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beili](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beili/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stage is set.

With trembling hands, Q put the kettle on, and he rubbed his eyes – he hadn’t slept for at least six days, and it was perhaps only adrenalin, caffeine, and worry which kept him on his feet now. He shuddered involuntarily as a chill ran through him – he also hadn’t been home in six days, and his flat was as icy as the London streets outside his windows. December was a dark month for the city, and the long, quiet nights had recently been made no more bearable by the events of the past week at Six. 

He waited to hear the familiar sound of water beginning to boil before he padded, barefoot, over to the table. He raked a hand through his hair and stared blankly out of the wide ninth-story window. All of London was before him: the many neighbourhoods and their innumerable turning streets, and the winding Thames, snaking its way through the beating heart of England as perhaps it always would. But Q’s city – his home – now seemed an alien landscape. It was uncertain, untrustworthy, and without mercy. Not without agitation, he pulled closed the Venetian blinds, and glanced at the two notes resting on the table – both written in familiar scripts, one which he knew as well as the palm of his hand. 

Darling,  
You always did know how to leave a man with something to remember you by. Three weeks will pass before we notice, and if there’s any grace in this world, I’ll be home before Christmas. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. J. 

H –  
Thanks for the tea from our favourite shop in Westminster – really, you’re far too kind to me. You know I love Nikki and Alastair far too much to mind watching them, they’re no trouble at all, the dears. Come round when you can – you seemed tired and distracted when I saw you earlier. Don’t let that bloody job of yours run you into the ground! I’ll come by to look in on your little terrors, and lock up behind me as usual.  
XOXO Darby 

Q could hardly believe it of himself, but between all of the complications of the week, he’d barely thought of Nikki and Alastair. Knowing that he could hardly be blamed for forgetting something during the fallout of the past seven days, he nonetheless felt guilty – Nikki and Alastair, perhaps, represented two of the few things in his life right now which seemed to remain stable – perhaps along with Darby, he amended. His young next-door neighbour, fresh out of university and working on her master’s, sharing her flat with five other girls at various points of their young adulthood, was arguably the guardian angel of Q’s two kittens, Nikki and Alastair. 

The kettle began to whistle, and as it did, Q sent up a silent but heartfelt prayer of thanks and gratitude for Darby. He prayed to all of the deities in the universe he could think of; it was only very recently that he’d begun to put his many hopes in them. Perhaps it was as recently as six or seven days – the details of his recently-acquired faiths paled in comparison to other, more important facts, which he knew by heart. Unbidden, they rose in his mind. 

One: the last time Bond had made contact was at 23:04 on December the 8th, when he had signed off for the evening. His parting words to Q had been, “Buona notte, mi amore,” and Q had cringed and blushed uncomfortably, still caught off guard at times by Bond’s rare and unpredictable bluntness. Q had lost count of the number of times in the past six days that he had needed to re-count this piece of information to his superiors. The story had not risen to his lips any more easily with repeated telling. 

Two: a week and a half into the mission in the Veneto, everything had seemed to be going according to plan. Bond’s counter surveillance, and his entanglement within the social circle of Signori Basilica Rosso – a nickname that the internationally-known fiend had earned after his most infamous criminal act – had given Q nothing but confidence concerning the work to come. 

Three: while the agent’s comms had been forcibly destroyed between two and three AM that night, Q had been relatively unconcerned about the loss of his technology, since he knew he could fall back on his ability to trace Bond’s location via his smart blood. The night came and went, and Bond had travelled northward. Q had watched closely, much in the same way he watched the sun rise that morning. 

Many cups of tea later found Q still waiting to hear from the estranged agent in some form or fashion – Bond could always cause a stir with the international news programmes if he were so inclined – when, quite unexpectedly and somewhere in the Alps, the agent fell off of Q’s radar. The Quartermaster had sprung out of his chair in surprise, dropping his teacup, giving only a passing thought to the shattered ceramic as he worked quickly to ensure that there was no fault in his own technology, mapping systems, GPRS study, or blood analysis. When it became clear that, as he’d expected, there was no error in his coding or calculations, he was faced with the only possible alternative: something had gone horribly wrong, and Q was now powerless to act. He’d set his underlings to work on hacking into every Italian CCTV camera within a 300-kilometer radius of the spot head seen Bond disappear, pulled on his cardigan, and had gone straight to Mallory. 

If only this turn of events had been the height of the complications of the week.


	2. One or More Kittens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loneliness can come to visit when one is in a crowd, or it can visit someplace rather more isolated.

From the cupboard above the stove Q reached for not his own favourite mug, but Bond’s – and he hesitated a brief moment, recognizing his own sentimentality in the act. With a small shake of his head, he pushed the thought aside, watching steam rise from the kettle as he poured hot water into the mug, ducking a packet of Twining’s English Breakfast inside. He cupped his cold hands on the mug for a moment, peering down at his steeping tea. 

Vividly, he was reminded of Bond’s larger hands wrapped fondly around the ceramic. Q imagined the agent’s hands shaking as he laughed, probably after one of their many morning misadventures. He could just see the twist in Bond’s lips, the light in his smile reaching his eye – and Q stepped suddenly away from the counter, as if badly burned by the offending mug of scalding-hot water. Through tired eyes, and from a safe distance, Q studied the instructions, emblazoned on the sides of the mug, for properly mixing a vodka martini. He crossed his arms over his chest, and held himself, as if all of his heart and guts and soul and sadness would come spilling out if he weren’t on guard, and he turned away, yearning for solace. 

Small, affectionate clicking noises came out of his throat as he padded softly out of the kitchen, making his way down the wide corridor to the bedroom. “Here, kittens,” he called softly, and the audibly noise – his voice – sounded foreign even to him. He continued to click, making quiet kissing noises, licking his lips. No creatures emerged, and he waited, still, listening. “Here, kittens,” he called again, more quietly this time, patting his thigh. It occurred to him that it was the middle of the night – his sense of time had been thoroughly thrown off, right along with his sleep schedule. He eyed the bed suspiciously, and, supporting himself with his hands, he dropped deliberately to his knees, thinking that if he wasn’t careful, he would fall, and perhaps never get up again. 

Looking around the big empty room, which, to Q, looked as if it had been lived in a long time ago, he made a mental note to ask Darby to turn on the heaters for the night time hours if he and Bond were away. There was a sharp pang of longing in his stomach, deep somewhere unknown where Q was sure that both his passion and his tenderness came from, and an afterthought floated through his mind. If he were away, he corrected himself. 

Too tired to summon up much energy, he crawled leisurely toward the bed and turned up the mattress skirt, smiling softly – when had he last smiled? When had he last had something to smile about? – when he discovered, to his pleasure, the two round balls of fluff keeping each other warm beneath. They seemed to vibrate contentedly, cocooned together like soft butterflies. Q’s hand brushed across the thick ivory carpet as he reached out for them, clicking again. Nikki stirred first, all sleek sinuousness and jet-black elegance as she unfurled herself from sleep. She blinked lazily at Q, arching her back quite impressively in the small space between the bedframe and the floor, stretching impossibly languorously. 

“Hey baby girl,” Q murmured softly, some of the tension coming out of him. But Nikki’s eyes narrowed fractionally at his words, and she focused sharply on him before letting out a discordant and chastising yowl, unhappiness and discontent in every long note. Even so, Q couldn’t help chuckling – the first time since he wasn’t sure when. “I probably deserved that,” he murmured, watching her knead the carpet with her paws, claws catching as she stretched again, and howled unhappily in response to Q’s greeting. Her sound seemed to rouse Alastair, who twitched and resisted consciousness, as was his practice. Nikki had, from the very start, been the more alert and astute of the two rescued cats, always involved and keen to keep up with the goings-on in her kingdom. 

Q recalled the night that Bond had met Nikki for the first time. The occasion had put her in a particularly investigative mood, and she had sniffed at him and pranced in circles quite extensively before allowing the two lovers to greet each other and prepare their dinner, as they’d planned. It hadn’t taken long for Nikki to give Bond her particular seal of approval – she had leapt up onto his shoulder from the nearby barstool, and had given his jaw a long, sandpapery lick. 

After this display of affection, she had reacted rather like all those of the feminine persuasion who had made James Bond’s acquaintanceship, and her scepticism had quickly demurred to slavish affection – or perhaps her change in attitude reflected a recognition that this man, with a license to kill, clearly meant something to Q. While Q’s flat was Nikki’s kingdom, the feline occasionally deigned to recognise the superiority of the man who – generally – cared for her. Now, however, was not one of those times, and Q endured his stern lecture with affectionate patience, having a hard time feeling properly abashed since he was glad to know that despite the odds, and this week’s track record, some things would remain the same. How much else would change, he wondered? And when? 

Nikki faltered, as if sensing his melancholy. Her tail flicked, seemingly conspiratorially, and with one swift motion she batted at Alastair, sinking her claws into his rump. He startled, mewling softly in protest. Q couldn’t help a disapproving frown – Nikki, while shrewd, was ruthless. Alastair growled and reluctantly waddled closer to Q – who was presumably safer than the midnight huntress – while Nikki busied herself with a bath, the picture of innocence. 

Fondly, Q reached out to Alastair, and shifted further beneath the bed, gathering the large orange tabby to his chest. “Missed you, Alastair,” he murmured into the cat’s neck, and the tabby let out a noncommittal huff of acknowledgement. Nikki merely watched them carefully – Q could see the gears turning in her little head, but he didn’t have the words to answer any of her silent questions, even if he’d wanted to. With an affectionate squeeze, Q released the older cat, who settled, unperturbed, and seemed to return to his nap. 

Q shuffled, shifting back and smoothing the mattress skirt. Satisfied that his charges were safe, sound, and comfortable – if a bit cold – he could try to get some rest.  


Sleep didn’t come, though – Q shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d put it off as long as he could – he’d sipped his tea slowly, staring at the four walls which seemed to be his prison and his world. He couldn’t stand being relieved of his duties due to concerns of objectivity, and being grounded at his flat until further notice was even worse. His only consolation was R’s promise to call the very moment that she heard or discovered anything – but his phone remained uncharacteristically silent. A watched pot never boils, he thought to himself.


	3. Outside the Realm of Logic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q finds the strange space between dreaming and wakefulness, between memory and imagination.

Barely able to tear his gaze away from his mobile, he consoled himself by turning up its volume as loud as it would go before he shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, slowly washing off the past week from his body, though he found himself unable to wring the ache from his heart. Soaping, lathering, and rinsing was a familiar ritual – one he shared with James when he could. The mindlessness of the act stimulated his senses, and the steam rising in the shower worked some of the tension from his aching limbs.  


He was sore from sleeping, for very short periods of time and always with one eye open, on the leather sofa in his private office at Six. He stretched his spine, and his toes, and he leaned against the ceramic shower wall, heedless of its cool surface. The shower was big enough for two for a reason, he thought absently, realizing he could fall asleep right then and there if he wasn’t careful. Reluctantly, he straightened, washing any remaining suds from his hair, and cocooned himself in his fluffiest towel.  


He strode purposefully towards the door, but startled when he caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror. He jumped out of his skin in astonishment, grasping the door knob, before realizing that he had been met with only his own reflection. Blinking, he stilled, pulling the towel more tightly around his body and taking stock of his appearance.  


It was no wonder he’d been sent home – he looked more like a wild man than MI-6’s Quartermaster. He needed to shave, badly – seven days’ growth covered his face, and he hadn’t even noticed before this very moment. His collarbone jutted out of his shoulder – he was more thin even than usual, which came as no surprise. It was his eyes which were most unfamiliar to him – he peered at himself, but there was nothing, no one there. His stare was empty and blank. Unable to look at this shadow of himself any longer, and at the same time riveted, he forced himself to turn away, hoping vaguely that he’d remembered to iron his pyjamas recently. 

He called the kittens to him, hesitating at the thought of climbing alone into the big, empty bed, and Nikki came swiftly, Alastair in tow. He straightened the cuffs of his pyjama shirt, gritting his teeth and steeling himself – going to bed was a mundane and necessary task. He scolded himself for dreading it so. 

Not without hesitation, he turned back the duvet, and wrapped himself around a pillow, taking care to only take up space on his side of the bed. Alastair purred softly, curled up beside his shoulder blades, and Nikki entangled herself with Q’s feet. Looking at the bedroom door, Q shifted and tried to make himself comfortable. If he closed his eyes, and if he breathed quietly, and if he didn’t think too hard, he could almost imagine Bond walking through the doorway. Climbing into bed. Sleeping beside him. Q hoped against hope that he didn’t face an indefinite number of nights alone.  


***  


When he did dream, it was of the nightmares that plagued his waking life – the ones that his imagination conjured up. Awake, he could stamp them out, lock them away somewhere that couldn’t reach him, but asleep, they haunted him all too vividly. 

_Q’s suit was starched and uncomfortable. He studied his hands, noticing that his skin looked even more pale against the stark black fabric. He’d polished his shoes as a matter of course, doing so with an amount of apathy that surprised even him. His eyes felt tired – he wasn’t hearing the words that the minister was speaking._

_His wedding band was tucked into his pocket, nestled in his handkerchief. Its weight in his pocket, and not on his hand, made him feel as though he were forgetting something. He looked up at to the clouds, studied the grass beneath his feet, watched the trees swaying in the unforgiving December wind – he’d willingly look anywhere except at the casket draped with the union jack._

_He stood between Eve and Tanner; they were there to support him, yet he couldn’t help feeling that they were expecting to need to hold him if he wept. Q was rather more certain that his knees might buckle, his heart would fail, and that they would need another grave._

_“This was a man who, during his life, would have given everything for queen and country. And that is precisely what he did,” the minister intoned, and Q’s head swam._


	4. To Build a Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q receives news.

“For queen and country,” the Sicilian gangster had snickered in a stilted, faux-English accent four days ago, having an espresso on a terraced cafe in Milan with his compatriots. R had been the one to find the man, noticing a loop in the footage before zeroing in on the man’s movements over the past several days. 

What remained a puzzle to those watching anxiously from Q-Branch was why Vincenzo was holding Bond hostage, though Q, for his part, was nonetheless thankful for this decision. Bond was undoubtedly still alive, if the gangster’s description of the previous evening’s gruesome activities were any indication. Q had winced, reflecting that it had likely not been an evening that Bond would remember pleasantly, though with any luck, it would, soon enough, be just a memory. 

Bond had been meant to neutralise the man and his chief accomplices after getting into a metaphorical bed with them – as of yet, it was unclear exactly what had gone wrong, and when. But because the Signori had a vested interest in wreaking havoc in Britain, and the means to do so, M had hesitated to order a mission to extract Bond. 

It was only when the gangster had revealed explicit plans to strike in Birmingham, Dublin, Swansea, and Glasgow, that MI-5 had diplomatically agreed that it was perhaps in the interest of the nation for the situation to be taken care of as soon as possible. When M had polled Six for volunteers, Q had unhesitatingly expressed his dedication to the task at hand, despite the Alps being an ocean away, and it must have been the look in his eyes which made M immediately turn him down. 

Instead, admittedly stoically, he had helped the 00s prepare to retrieve their comrade, arming them to the teeth. But it was when R noticed him tucking an exploding pen into 009’s kit while the agents made their final preparations for departure that she had unflinchingly ordered Q to stand down. R always could see right through Q; he supposed that was why he had made her his second-in-command to begin with. 

Q had ceded to her without much protestation; he could recognize his worry, but he couldn’t help it. Six had as of yet been unable to locate the Sicilian’s headquarters, and with Bond still having vanished into thin air, Q couldn’t help the feeling that they were flying blind into territory they didn’t understand, and it made him deeply uncomfortable. 

R had banished him from his desk, and had taken his technology away from him, all waving hands and fondly scolding words. For his part, Q had surrendered as gracefully as he could manage. He wasn’t a man who was naturally very good at being still under duress, and when this debacle was over – when, he repeated to himself, not if – he suspected that he would remain fidgety and antsy for a long time to come. 

His hands may have been tied, but he was still mentally engaged, shifting and leaping up earnestly at the slightest development, whether it was one of his underlings linking an Italian vehicle to one of Vincenzo’s confidantes...or Eve bringing him another cup of tea. 

He couldn’t bear to be startled unnecessarily, though, especially in high-stress situations, and so this was when he reluctantly tore himself away from Six and met Darby in Westminster to send Nikki and Alastair home, where they could not leap into his lap while he was twisting the ring on his finger, combing his hands through his hair, not eating, and generally consuming himself with worrying about his missing husband. 

It was during a tense moment that afternoon that the agents had located the Sicilian’s holding cells, and Q, who was at this point made all of heart-heavy star-stuff, had been barely able to restrain himself from jumping in and issuing orders. R had sent periodic darting glances his way as they planned carefully, each of her looks becoming at once more threatening and more concerned. She had met his gaze, and touched his shoulder gently before saying firmly, “Q – it’s time go home now.” 

He tossed and turned, the words echoing in his head. It’s time to go home now, he heard, as clearly as if R had been there, watching over him and standing guard while he slept fitfully. He curled more tightly against the pillow he held against his chest, and at his shifting feet, Nikki mewled in protest. Time to go home now. Was this home? Had it been home yesterday? Could it still be home, if Bond never returned to it? Could he allow himself to consider what he would do? If he considered it, was this the same as giving up on Bond? Didn’t he trust his partner to take care of himself? Well, he thought sceptically, coming up short, images of Silva, Blofeld, and Mr. Greene dancing in his head, becoming warped and ghastly figures as Q’s thoughts interrupted and twisted through their features. 

To go home now, he thought delicately to himself, as if the phrase were the infinitive form of an elaborate French verb that James would probably know. What did it mean to go home? Was Bond truly at home with him, here? Insecurities rose in his nightmares, rearing their ugly heads in ways they hadn’t done in years. Was the world really not enough for his lover, who was so often so many things all at once?

He stirred all at once, coming out of sleep in a moment and sitting up rapidly – he could still hear R’s voice in his head, ordering him to go home now – how long had he been home? How long had he slept? He wiped his hand across his face to rub the night from his eyes, and found tears on his cheeks – had he rested for hours, minutes, or days? It didn’t matter, he realised. The sound of alarm bells rang out in his surroundings, and with a swiftness he didn’t know he had in him, he leapt for his phone, charging at the desk across the room. 

“It’s Q,” he said harshly, rubbing irritably at his eyes again, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been. 

“He’s alright,” said R, breathlessly, as though she’d sprinted from a long distance.


	5. All that was Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is forced to decide that no news may in fact have been better news.

The first thought to cross Q’s mind, however absurd it seemed, was that he would most definitely be converting to the religions of all the deities he’d prayed to recently. He and R both spoke at the same time. 

“Shall I come in – ?”

“He’s not in London.” 

There was a beat of silence, before they both laughed hesitantly – it seemed the only thing to do, under the circumstances, and in light of their conversation. Of course Bond wouldn’t be back in London already, not if R had promised to call Q the moment she heard something, and Q knew he would most certainly not be welcome back in Q-Branch just yet; not until some of the chaos had been sorted. 

They were both quiet, sitting in the moment for a brief second of peace that didn’t feel as though it were going to run away at a moment’s notice. Q felt that he was just now remembering to breathe after an unquantifiable amount of time spent underwater. “Right,” he said, his dreams still far too close to the surface for his own comfort. “Right.” But R was silent. 

“They’ve just retrieved him, and they’re on their way out of the country now,” she said, as if remembering something a moment too late. 

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said, with a small nod to himself, sure of his suspicion. His voice was so steady that even he was surprised. Then again, with the news he’d survived this week, he wondered if there was anything he couldn’t bear. 

R hesitated. “I’d rather tell you face-to-face. Is it a bad time to come over?” 

“Yes,” he responded shortly, instantly, unequivocally, not thinking twice, swallowing back the bile in his throat. 

It was R’s turn to murmur, “Right,” this time, quietly, almost as an afterthought. “Q, it isn’t looking good,” she said smoothly, all the words pouring out at once. “He isn’t wounded – does that come as a surprise? It did me. But,” she faltered, “Alec told him immediately about how worried you were, and 007 didn’t know what he was talking about.” 

Q didn’t know what to say – he frowned, eyebrows pulling together, not understanding why a momentary loss of coherence was relevant. 

“Alec thought at first that maybe the man was exhausted – because he was – but a bit later, on the plane, he fixed 007 a drink and told him how Mallory had finally come round, and he says the man was confused.” 

“I was confused, too,” Q said, not without a touch of defensiveness. “We may never know quite why it took the man so long to act.” 

“Right. It’s just, Q, well – 007 asked Alec who Mallory was. We have a recording of their conversation, Alec was on his comms at the time, with me, and...” She took in a deep, unsteady breath. 

“Tell me,” said Q, with a surety and command that surprised him. 

There was nothing from R, but when she spoke again, her tone was formal. “Q, he talked to Alec about Vesper. 007 told Alec that Vesper had died in his arms, days ago. That he was in the Veneto to find her lover, and that he was ready to be back at Six and put all that nonsense behind him. You know, the way 007 says quite a lot when he really doesn’t say very much at all,” she said hurriedly, when Q didn’t respond. 

“I’m not sure...I’m not sure that I understand,” he said finally, shaking his head and holding his temples, fighting off the throbbing that had begun in his head. 

“Q, I’m so sorry,” R said, and began to speak the way she did when she was cataloguing information. “He had no memory of his mission. He didn’t know who Mallory was when Alec was talking about him. He didn’t recognize 002. He thought he’d just buried Vesper.” 

“I think I see,” Q said slowly, as the pieces fell into place, far too quickly for his comfort. Was there any possibility that he could still be dreaming? 

“Q, I’m so, so sorry, but...it seems Bond doesn’t remember any of us since Vesper. He doesn’t remember you.” 

There was a long moment, and the silence and peace that Q had longed for now seemed deafening. He grit his teeth. “I’ll see you at Six,” he said shortly, and dropped the call. His phone clattered to the desk. 

On the wall was a photo frame Q realized he’d been staring at while on the phone with R. It was from a day he thought he’d never forget, and for the longest time, he’d been glad that Darby had captured it. Someone had been throwing confetti, and the glitter drifted through the air, turning the world into something shining and effervescent for a moment. He and James beamed, eyes only for each other, compassionate and affectionate expressions. It was a wonder that Q remembered Darby had been at their wedding at all, so focused had Q been on his agent, turned lover, turned husband. In the photo, taken on what now seemed to be some place and time a world or two away, he and James had forkfuls of cake in their hands. 

Q remembered how, moments after the photo had been snapped, and Q had swallowed the raspberry-vanilla-amaretto concoction. James had smirked devilishly and lifted the pad of his thumb to Q’s lips, brushing icing from his cheek before licking his thumb deliberately, eyes dark. Q could scarcely breathe, and knew in that moment that he would never forget the way his lover looked in this moment – bespoke suit sparkling with confetti and glitter, wedding band shining on his hand, eyes promising that they would be bound to each other in all the ways that one person could be bound to another. 

And yet how ironic that now, he could be remembering this, and apparently James could not. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling empty, not sure that he could summon up even sadness, or loss, or regret. He couldn’t feel anything right now – this was too much. He needed rest, and there wasn’t anything he could do about anything in this state. He felt Nikki at his feet, winding between his legs and rubbing the crown of her head on his calves. After a long look at the photo on the wall, he reached for it before he could change his mind, and cradled it against his chest, plodding off toward the kitchen. 

He put the kettle on again, feeling as though he were going through the motions of something that resembled life. He opened the Venetian blinds, as if to re-assure himself that there was a world in motion outside the life he led – the life which was currently falling apart. Dawn was peeking over the roofs of the Gothic buildings. He shifted, studying the photo in his arms again. Who were those men now? 

The question stuck in his head as he prepared his tea and curled up on the big leather couch in the sitting room. As if from somewhere far away – as if everywhere were somewhere far away – he could hear Nikki scurrying up and down the corridor, and he could see the morning light creeping into the room. It shone on the photo in his lap, casting soft pink and gold rays, lighting up in technicolour the two men on their wedding day. Q thought absently, it was funny how the sun lit up the day almost more vividly than he remembered. 

He drifted off to sleep remembering, and hoping, and wondering – what had happened to those two smiling men who were once so in love? What had happened to his James? He curled up, pressing the memory against his chest. The photo frame jutted uncomfortably into his collarbone, yet Q didn’t mind at all.


	6. Back in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his world in turmoil in the present, Q looks to the past.

It didn’t matter how much of an art enthusiast you were – Bond was sure that the day a man came back from the dead was not also the day that he wanted to go to the National Gallery. When he’d been told that he would be set up with MI-6’s new Quartermaster, he’d expected to be told to find the man in some stuffy office in Thames House, buried in paperwork and obligations. He hadn’t anticipated that he’d be pointed towards the Trafalgar Square lions and told by a distracted Tanner to find “Turner’s iconic painting. Wait for him there.” Rather cryptic, that. If it hadn’t been for Bond’s classical education, he may well have had to ask for directions – and that would have been more mortifying than learning that the man MI-6 now called Q still had his spots. 

Bond hadn’t wanted to be waiting in the National Gallery for his errant new Quartermaster on his first day back in London. There was a svelte blonde waiting for him in his four-poster bed – presuming she’d followed his instructions – in his suite at Hazlitt’s. She was a real estate agent by day, concierge by night – not last night, though, Bond thought wryly. She’d promised to open a bottle of MacAllen with him that evening while showing him the city’s most sophisticated properties before he left for Shanghai. 

So while, for all intents and purposes, he was studying The Temeraire Tugged to Her Last Berth to be Broken Up with all the intensity of someone who had a genuine interest in the painting, he was vividly remembering the multitude of ways that the woman in his bed had nearly broken him up the night before – and all of the ways that she’d promised to do so again. 

First impressions could tell you a lot about a person, reflected Bond, and his new Quartermaster was no exception to this rule. The young man was cheeky, to be sure, but clever, and he seemed to have a firm sense of where his abilities ended and began – the value of which could not be underestimated in the world of international intelligence gathering. 

He was perhaps a minimalist with a flair for the dramatic, if Bond’s kit for Shanghai was any indication, and if the handprint sensitivity was the young man’s own innovation, then this, alongside his other observable qualities, was easily reason enough for MI-6 to want him. If his sense of humour prevailed through more than their first meeting, then all of this was reason enough for Bond to want Q as his Quartermaster, too. 

As Bond watched the young man walk away, he couldn’t say whether it was patriotism or sentimentality that had him muttering under his breath and tucking his kit into his jacket, rising to his feet and buttoning his suit. Before he could think twice about the impulse, he followed after the young man, lengthening his stride in order to catch him up. He couldn’t say what made him do it. Death and resurrection did strange things to a man. 

He fell into stride beside his new Quartermaster, who came up short and stopped, facing Bond. The man blinked owlishly, and Bond stared back, only a slight hitch in his breathing betraying his recent recovery from injury. 

“There’s no Aston Martin I’ve forgotten to tell you about,” the Quartermaster said, a small frown tugging at his lips and an equally small furrow in his brow. 

In turn, Bond raised his eyebrows, acknowledging that the new Q did know something about the man he’d be handling. 

“I was warned,” the man said in explanation, shrugging slightly. 

“Were you?” Bond asked rhetorically, rocking back on his heels, wondering whether the young man had been given this knowledge by a well-intentioned colleague, or by Bond’s file. In any case, the double-oh could take his revenge on either entity, it was no matter. “And were you also warned that my affinity for automobiles extends beyond that particular model?” 

The Quartermaster looked at the double-oh agent carefully. “Yes.” 

Bond tucked his hands into his pockets. “I understand that the collections of the National Gallery feature a number of automobiles in the various modern paintings. Would I be correct in presuming that your knowledge of art extends beyond your appreciation for Turner?” 

Bond is pleased to note that something in the young man’s face softens. He still isn’t totally certain what impulse drives him to pursue this line of thought. He tells himself it’s no use to put one’s life in the hands of a Quartermaster who is also a stranger, not at MI-6. Their lives are too short to not forge some sort of trust – the sort that will remember the nation’s priorities when hard choices are forced in the field. The sort that he had with Moneypenny, before he disappeared for three months. Had the woman followed orders? Yes. Would Bond have done the same thing in her place? Probably. The double-oh was forced to admit that his pride was wounded more seriously than anything else. Patriotism bred in him a desire to finish the job. 

The Quartermaster in question takes a small step closer to the agent, mindful of the people around them. “You would be correct, double-oh seven,” he murmurs. One dextrous hand reaches out of his pockets to adjust his spectacles, as if to better study the double oh agent. 

Bond straightens, casting a glance at the spacious halls and open galleries, considering for a brief moment longer. It isn’t a bad day for it – not a holiday, so the vaulted ceilings do not echo with the sounds of clamouring children. “Perhaps, then,” he says casually, “you’d be willing to share your knowledge with me. Since it is after breakfast, and you are out of your pyjamas,” he adds as an afterthought, eyes twinkling. 

The Quartermaster smiles slowly, his lips turning softly upwards after a moment has passed. He checks his watch, and meets Bond’s eyes. “It’s very kind of you to ask,” he says, “and if I were as reckless with my career as you are, I might consider it.” With another small smile, he turns to go. 

“Oh, come now,” Bond chastises playfully, though he doesn’t disagree, and the Quartermaster does actually hesitate. “I’d take full responsibility. Tell M I’d kidnapped you or something.” 

The young man smiles again, wryly. “I’ve no doubt you would, double-oh seven,” he says, and this time, he does walk away. 

Bond watched him go until he passed out of sight, before he turns away, dialing Moneypenny’s number. She answers almost immediately. 

“Bond,” she says briskly, as though she’s been interrupted. 

“Eve,” the agent replies, strolling back through the gallery and returning to stare at the painting of the Temeraire. “I’ve just met Q.” 

“And?” she asks. Bond can hear the smile in her voice, from which he can easily deduce who told the Quartermaster about his driving history. 

Bond is silent for a moment, studying the oranges and golds on the horizon line of the iconic painting of the Temeraire. “The boy’s certainly not intimidated by his superiors.” 

“Oh, no, James, for once you’ve got it quite wrong. I suppose you haven’t seen him around M yet? It’s just you he’s been instructed to keep on your toes,” she says crisply. 

“Almost everyone at Six had a piece of advice for dealing with you.” 

Bond squints at the painting. “News travels fast,” he murmurs. “I’ve only just arrived.” 

“And your flair for the dramatic came with you, I presume.” 

Bond refrains from commenting on this. “I understand I’ll be seeing you in Shanghai. But I thought you said you’d been grounded from field work?” 

On the other end of the line, there’s a pause, and a sigh. “There’s field work, James, and then there’s righting wrongs.” 

Bond doesn’t tell her how astute this is. He’s more interested in needling her about her marksmanship skills. “Does this mean you’re planning to finish the job you started in Istanbul three months ago?” 

“Good-bye, James,” Eve says, mild tension in her voice revealing the vestiges of embarrassment she still held over shooting the double-oh. “And do try not to terrorize your Quartermaster. We need him as much as we need you.” 

“No promises,” says Bond, but the line is already dead. He stares thoughtfully at his phone before slipping it into his pocket, his thoughts returning to the real estate agent waiting for him in his bed. They had a fair bit of ground to cover in more ways than one, and not an awful lot of time to do it in before MI-6 shipped him off to the East with his rather minimalist armaments – really, what was he honestly meant to do with a Walther and a radio? Floss his teeth and look menacing at the same time? 

But the weight of the kit against his chest reminds him of the young man who gave it to him. The memory of his Quartermaster’s smooth dark eyes and his sharp wit haunt Bond all the way back to Hazlitt’s.


	7. Before the Agent Vanishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another leap in time - forward.

“Q, my darling saucy little minx, how would you like it if I tell you all the things I’ve fantasized about doing to you today?” 

The Quartermaster sits up quite straight in his chair, now wide awake. He clears his throat in an attempt to obscure his blush, and glances around his department in what he hopes is an inconspicuous manner. He’s glad he’s the only one who can hear James in his ear right now, and he folds his hands, wondering if he can make the double-oh see reason, or if it’s going to be a long night at the office. “Double-oh seven,” he says, with all the professionalism he can muster. “Status report?” 

“That’s no way to say hello to your husband,” the double-oh growls reproachfully. His voice is dark and full of heat. “Status? Wanting you under me, in our bed, wearing only that striped jumper of yours, crying out my name while I thrust into you.” 

Under his desk, Q’s toes curl inadvertently at the picture James paints, and warmth flushes his skin. He rolls his chair a bit closer to his desk, and gingerly, rests his palm on his blushing cheek. With his other hand, he straightens his laptop, blinking at Bond’s coordinates and attempting to look studious. “I beg your pardon, not sure I caught that,” he finally musters. “Status, double-oh seven?” 

When Bond bites out his partner’s name in a sound that is all lust and affection, Q tries not to melt. “You’re being rather naughty this evening,” says the man who, miraculously, still has his license to kill. “And you know what I do to you when you’re naughty, darling.” 

Q knows. He’s trying not to think about it. He’s hoping desperately that James had a productive day in the field, because this conversation is anything but productive. “Apologies, double-oh seven,” he says, with a degree of nonchalance that impresses him. “We seem to have had a poor connection there for a moment. How are things in Venice?” 

Bond lets out a frustrated sigh on the other end of the line. “I’ll never know why you insist on always doing your duty, putting business before pleasure. Deadly dull, and probably bad for your health.” 

Q holds his tongue on the finer points of James’ train of thought. Field work robs the man of his logic, and leaves his instincts raw. Q knows this; he knows his partner, and he also knows what isn’t worth arguing over. 

“Very well then,” the seasoned agent sighs. “After I had a leisurely cup of espresso in the Piazza di San Marco to the sounds of baroque music echoing off the arches of every last terrace, I took a water taxi to Burano.” 

Q frowns, curious. He knows Bond’s movements throughout the day by heart; he can only imagine how many euros his lover spent at Cafe Florian. What he wants to know is what the agent isn’t telling him. “And were you able to confirm that Rosso does, in fact, conduct a smuggling operation on the island?” 

“He does, with nearly admirable discretion.” Q can hear James stifle a yawn. “It’s a question of what he’s smuggling, though...MI-6 was aware of the drug-running, and the art theft, but there’s something else.” Q can hear the question in the agent’s voice, and something in his heart drops. He’s familiar with the way James is talking – it means the mission could be more complicated than Six originally anticipated, and James is warming up to it like a child does to a lollipop on a warm day. Q doesn’t usually mind – in fact, usually, he’s quite content to puzzle problems out along with his partner – but he had hoped they would spend Christmas together this year, and depending on exactly what James uncovers, the chances of that might grow small. 

With a few quickly-entered commands on his computer, Q opens the file on the international crime syndicate that Six is currently investigating, due to a tip from the Belgian government and a cryptic message involving – a frustratingly abstract – malicious intent. Simultaneously, he opens the satellite footage of the island Bond has been describing. 

“Tell me more,” he instructs, all business. 

The agent sounds thoughtful. “I don’t have any hard proof, unfortunately. It’s just an instinct. The property seems too heavily guarded to be concealing merely heroin and Vermeers.” 

Q presses his lips together. “If it were just that, we’d have passed this off to the Americans, and you know it, Bond. Understatement has always been your forte.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“Don’t.” 

They’re silent for a moment, while Q scans his data, searching for clues. “And you remain in contact with Luca, correct? He seems to be near the heart of whatever’s going on.” 

He hears James clear his throat. “Yes, the boy’s a bit tedious. No one could ever accuse him of being a particularly talented conversationalist, but he does have a vested interest in his father’s work.” 

“Whatever his father’s work is,” Q reminds his husband. 

“And speaking of tedious...” Bond mutters. 

The Quartermaster darts a quick glance around the alcoves branching off from the main gallery that is Q-Branch, making sure that no one’s paying attention to him. He lowers his voice. “You’re very lucky that I’m in love with you, otherwise I would never put up with your lip.” 

Bond scoffs, and Q cringes at the interference it creates in his comms. “Nonsense. You put up with me long before you were ever in love with me, and if I recall correctly, you’ve always given as good as you’ve gotten.” 

“Double-oh seven, is it really a good idea to argue with the man who’s willing to send you out into the field with only a set of nail clippers?” 

“Empty threats,” Bond yawns, not even pretending to be concerned. 

“That’s what you think,” Q mutters, suppressing a smile in spite of himself. He calls up further information on his laptop, reminding himself of the faces that his lover has spent the past several days with. “Is there anything else I ought to tell M in the morning?” 

“Oh come now, Q, I’ve given you the whole story.” 

Q presses his lips together into a thin line. If he and Bond were face to face, and if looks could kill... “James,” he says firmly, “Your idea of the full story and my idea of the full story are rarely the same. There’s nothing you’re not telling me? And you aren’t taking any unnecessary risks, correct?” 

When Bond does answer, there’s a slur in his voice, and Q wonders if it’s from sleepiness or drink. “Don’t you trust your double-oh seven?” 

“No further than I can throw you.” 

“Which isn’t very far at all,” James snickers. “No, everything’s gone according to plan, though from here on out I suspect the situation will be more complicated than we anticipated.” 

“I’ll tell R to set the underlings on gathering as much intel as they can find. We won’t leave you unprepared, Bond, I promise,” he says, perhaps more fervently than he intends to. 

Immediately, he begins typing out an e-mail to those in Q-Branch who are not on the skeleton crew this Friday evening, and then there’s a separate one to R, who’s on the Saturday evening shift this week, which is lucky, Q thinks, because it means he’ll finally be able to make another one of Darby’s cocktail parties that he’s been apologising his way out of all too many times recently...presuming, of course, that all hell doesn’t break loose, either at Six or in Venice, in the next twenty-four hours or so. 

“I never thought you would,” Bond says.

Q blinks, jolted out of his reverie. “What, sorry?” 

“I said, I never believe for a moment that you’d leave me unprepared.” There’s a softness in his voice this time, one that Q doesn’t hear very often while James is in the field, and some of the tension Q didn’t realise he was holding in comes out of his shoulders at the words. 

The Quartermaster leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his chest. “Of course not, don’t be bloody ridiculous, James,” he smiles, looking up at the arches in the vaulted ceiling in his below-ground department. “It’s just too much fun threatening you about it, though,” he says with a sigh. “Rather become a hobby of mine.” 

“Become?” Q hears James scoff. “If I recall correctly, threatening me always was a hobby of yours.” 

“Not before I met you,” Q corrects him quickly, with a smirk to himself and the ceiling. 

Bond growls, and Q thinks he hears a note of playfulness in the sound. “You’re quite lucky you’re an ocean away, or I’d bend you over my knee for that.” 

Q snorts derisively – but in his way, it looks and sounds more like a sneeze. “Now look who’s making empty threats.” 

“It’s only an empty threat until you vex me enough – and until we’re not apart,” says Bond mildly, as if he were talking about the weather. “Fortunately there are other, more interesting ways of bringing colour to your skin.” 

Q is silent, watching the four walls around him, listening to the whir of his computer and trying to ignore the voice of his lover in his ear. 

Bond purrs contentedly – and abstractly, Q thinks that the sound is remarkably like that of Alastair. “Blushing already, are you, Q?” he asks. 

Q adjusts his glasses, bouncing back into an upright position and straightening his computer in front of him. “I’ve absolutely no way of knowing,” he protests. He wonders if his tone comes across as casually as he intends it to. 

“But I know,” Bond says coyly, and if Q wasn’t pretending to be busy before, he certainly is now, shuffling the pens on his desk as if he were a nervous schoolboy in the headmaster’s office. Except his headmasters in the parochial schools had never borne any resemblance to James Bond. None, whatsoever. He was quite sure of this. 

“Q,” the agent says crisply, when the Quartermaster doesn’t respond, “Do you remember the first time I made you blush?” 

“Impossible to forget,” Q growls sharply, the memory still bringing up vestigial embarrassment. He squirms. 

“Have I ever told you why I did what I did that day?” 

This is safe conversational territory, even if Q is still pink at the vivid recollection of exactly what happened. “No, I don’t believe you have.” He’s straightening the files in his outbox, even though they were already in pristine order. 

“The simple truth is, I wanted to know what made you tick.” There’s the familiar sound of ice on glass in the background, and the shuffle of decanters. Q can just imagine the agent pouring himself another drink. 

“And did you have your answer?” 

“One answer. As it turns out, Q, there are many things that make you tick – one of those things being...what I did to you several weeks ago, the night we broke the wine glasses.” He pauses. “Do you recall?” 

Q is silent for a moment, considering, hesitating. “No,” he finally says. 

“Liar,” James says sharply, though there’s a satisfied smile in his voice. “You just want me to describe it to you.” 

Q blinks rapidly and sits even further upright as one of the underlings walks briskly towards the door of the department, likely headed home for the evening. Perhaps to someone who cared about her, who could keep her warm at night. Someone who knew nothing about Six. Q clears his throat, watching her warily, as if she could hear their conversation. “Double-oh seven, I can neither confirm or deny that statement.” 

James chuckles, softly. “In another life, Q, you would be the double-oh agent.” 

Q’s eyebrows fly up, and he leans back. “I’d be a better one than you, no doubt.” 

“Cocky bastard,” Bond says, but there’s affection in his voice. 

“I’m quite serious, double-oh seven,” Q murmurs, “even if we’re only compared on the grounds that I would bring back all of my equipment intact.” 

“That’s hardly a standardised unit of measurement,” James protests, making no effort to smother his laughter. 

“Tell that to me the next time you return with a mangled Walther, and we’ll see who still has a sense of humour then, shall we?” 

“Hmmm,” James purrs thoughtfully. 

Q smirks to himself, sensing victory, but James quickly turns the tables again. 

“Q, darling, do tell me something. What is the unit for measuring the amount of wine we spilled that evening?” 

Q frowns, on his guard again. “The absorption capacity of two fluffy towels, now permanently stained crimson?” he guesses. 

“Do you remember, after we’d swept away the glass, how I laid you down on those towels, and seduced you until you were ready to melt?” 

Q makes a face, and squirms in his chair, not particularly interested in risking being caught en deshabille at the office – even though, he thinks to himself, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. 

“I believe I had too much to drink that evening to remember the particularities, double-oh seven. If I recall correctly, you insisted–rather incorrectly, I might add –that three bottles were necessary.” Q had not shared this opinion. It had seemed rather indulgent, but James had wanted to spend a romantic night in, and Q had agreed only on the condition that James would prepare his own vodka martinis for the next month. For reasons Q could not understand, the agent took a singular sort of pleasure in watching Q mix his drinks for him. Q tipped his head to one side, considering that while James had always had a fascination with his lover’s hands, Q could think of a million other more interesting things to do with them than pour alcohol. 

And if he was being honest with himself, Q had done several things on that list of million in the course of the night James was currently teasing him about. He blinked rapidly, realising that James had been murmuring to him again – probably lascivious things, thought Q. 

“...and you were so soft, your body so pliable under mine, especially after I opened you up with my tongue. You moaned so sweetly, as if I’d robbed your words from you. Fuck, Q, I love it when you can’t form coherent thoughts anymore. Those moments are so rare.” 

Q, at once frozen in place and rapidly heating up, shuddered at the sound of Bond’s murmurings. The sounded like velvet – the sort that could caress you with sweetness, or, without warning, become dangerous enough to smother you. 

While he could by no means claim to be unaffected by his partner’s words, he did retain some measure of self-possession, and so it was with great reluctance that Q cleared his throat, and straightened his cardigan. “Double oh seven?” he asks curtly. 

“Quartermaster?” the agent replies, his tone still dark and sultry with the promise and memory of moments that Q is trying not to hear. 

Q can’t believe he’s about to suggest it, but he can’t help himself. He misses his husband, and he really doesn’t want to be alone on Christmas, though he wouldn’t ever admit to Bond that he minded. “Presuming things remain uncomplicated...I don’t suppose you’d have time late tomorrow evening to attempt to clear every thought from my head.” 

James makes a noise of mild surprise. “Why, Quartermaster, you know I’ll have to check with my secretary.” 

Q rests his head in his palms. His sigh is both world-weary and affectionate. “James, more often than not, I am your bloody secretary.” 

Bond yawns again. “For all the good it does me. You know as well as anyone I’m notoriously bad at keeping appointments. But for you...until tomorrow night, my minx.” 

Q’s eyebrows arch as he hears the note of finality in his lover’s tone. “And don’t do anything reckless.” 

“This is double-oh-seven, signing off...” 

“I mean it,” Q says insistently, but the line has already gone dead.


	8. Under His Tongue is Mischief and Vanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond has free time, which likely spells trouble for MI-6. Or, at the very least, it probably spells trouble for Six's Quartermaster.

There is only the sound of typing, and of leather creaking back and forth. Productivity is in the air. Tanner is working madly, prepping a new idea to pitch to M. Drawings are scattered across his desk, and he shuffles graphing paper, sifting through the mess for his original blueprints. His searching becomes increasingly urgent when they do not surface, and he lifts his head from his work, frowning. “Bond, did you by chance happen to see - ?” 

A paper airplane wafts into his periphery, and with a grimace, Tanner snatches it out of the air, turning with a growl. “Jesus H. Christ, Bond. I’ve had enough of this.” 

The double-oh agent is sprawled out on the couch in Tanner’s office, fidgeting with the cufflinks on his suit. He does not look sheepish or at all guilty; he stares at Tanner nonchalantly, and shrugs. “You asked a question, I gave you an answer.” 

Exasperated, Tanner balls up the blueprint-cum-paper-airplane in his fist. “Tell M from me that if he grounds you again, he’ll hear about it. You’re utterly incorrigible when you have nothing to do.” 

Bond makes a face. “It isn’t that I have nothing to do. Rather, it’s just that...I will do nothing.” 

It is Tanner’s turn to toss the projectile at his colleague, who, in turn, and rather annoyingly, catches it in his fist. “I sound like a broken record, but you aren’t above doing paperwork, you know.” 

“Really? Well. Now that I’ve heard it from you for the thirty-seventh time, I think I’ve finally set my mind to it. Ta,” Bond says, and rises, stretching. 

Tanner shakes his head, and grumbles at Bond’s back as the agent strides to the door. “I’d say not to do anything stupid, James, but it’s usually rather too late for that.” 

“Always just too late, fascinatingly enough,” Bond agrees, pausing at the door and staring thoughtfully at the walls of Tanner’s office. “Just one more thing, though, I think, and then I’ll let you be.” 

The man’s eyes narrow. “It’s you who owes me favours, not the other way round, and don’t think I’ll forget it, you devious arsehole.” 

“No, it’s just a question.” 

“The answer’s still no, James. I refuse to blackmail individuals of international import in order to procure information on when posh cars will be put on the market,” Tanner deadpans. 

James grimaces, shaking his head. “Unfortunately not that.” 

“I have no friends left of the feminine persuasion who will still be smitten with you after you seduce them and then inevitably proceed to fall off the face of the planet for three months’ time.” 

The double oh winces. “Not that. Not this time,” he adds, sounding thoughtful. 

“I have no interest in fabricating a mission in Scotland so that you can amuse yourself in your spare time by smuggling well-aged MacAllen out of a distillery without being caught – and just for the hell of it, at that. You and I both know you can afford good whisky when and if you want it.” 

“No, not that.” James waves the idea away distractedly. “But remind me to ask you about that again sometime, as it still sounds like a good way to while away a few…hours. Try again.” 

“Six stopped producing exploding pens many years ago and I have no influence in that department. I hardly know the new Q. I understand he runs a tight ship, so you won’t have anything out of him, either.” 

“It isn’t that, but you’re not far off the mark, actually.” James scratches his head thoughtfully. “I was wondering – is our Quartermaster a human being?” 

Tanner blinks. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“You heard me,” the double oh replies smoothly. 

“I did,” Tanner admits grudgingly, “but that doesn’t mean you made any sense.” 

“I mean,” James elaborates, “Does the man live and breathe, or does he just plod away at his keyboards and machines day after day? Or is he perhaps an android, merely dreaming of electric sheep?” 

Tanner folds his arms, arching a disbelieving eyebrow. “Are you seriously about to imply that there’s a problem with the man because he actually does work at his place of employment, rather than wreaking havoc where and whenever possible, as is the style of someone I know?” 

“You wound me,” Bond says facetiously. “I was really just curious. Have you been out with the man yet? Has anyone been out with the man yet? For that matter, has anyone seen the man out of the office yet?” 

Tanner’s puzzlement fades. He leans back in his chair, smirking smugly. “I see. I’d forgotten it was your specialty to ply your new colleagues with alcohol until they tell you all their secrets.” 

James shrugs, giving the appearance of demure, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the man. “You know me,” he answers. 

Almost to himself, Tanner murmurs, “I wound you? And yet I know you.” He sighs. “Well, to be perfectly honest, James, I know I don’t have to tell you how chaotic it’s been after Geoffrey’s rather abrupt retirement. I mean, every day for the past forty years, he threatened to do it, and we all took it as a matter of turn, when perhaps we shouldn’t have.” 

“Right enough,” James murmurs thinly, remembering all the times he’d needled his old Quartermaster – in hindsight, perhaps that had been a bit unnecessary. 

“As for the new Q, well, he’s quite young. But of course who doesn’t place a perhaps unnecessarily large value on youth these days,” Tanner says hurriedly, pressing a hand gently to his own receding hairline and studiously avoiding James’ eyes. “And young he may be...” he continued, casting a glance around as if searching for a way to shift the subject, “but green he is not. The man can lead, Bond, no doubt about it.” 

Bond tilts his head to one side. “What makes you say that?” 

Tanner rubs at the ghost of scruff on his chin, thoroughly disengaged from his project, now. “Have you not yet been to see him down in Q-Branch?” 

“I’ve only seen him around, making tea and flitting about, coming and going, perhaps not in his own habitat, I suppose. For all intents and purposes he seems to be quite the immovable object. Not particularly expressive,” James suggests. 

Tanner chuckles. “Remind you too much of yourself for your comfort, eh?” he asks with a smile. “I understand he’s meant to be down in Q-Branch today. To be perfectly honest, he doesn’t seem the type to go for a cheeky pint, or to tell you all his secrets. Though why don’t you go pester him, and leave me to attend to my responsibilities for a change?” 

For all intents and purposes, Bond appears to contemplate this for a moment. “I might just take you up on that. But if he’s boring, I’ll be back.” He winks, and smiles politely. 

Tanner groans, and turns back to his computer as Bond steps out of his office. “Let’s hope he’s the most interesting person in the world, then...” the double-oh hears before he steps out of earshot. 

A small smile quirks his lips as he strides away from Tanner’s office, glancing at his watch. How many cups of tea would Q have had today, by now? Earl Grey, was it, he wondered, if memory served, and in that blasted Scrabble mug, to boot? Abstractly, James fantasized about shattering the piece of ceramic, just to see the Quartermaster’s face pinken.

No, best not do that, he decides. He’s James Bond, of her majesty’s secret service, after all, and he can be far more subtle. Far be it from James Bond to live up to his moniker: blunt instrument. No, no. He does have some sense of delicacy.

Striding confidently into the small alcove from where he could hear the distinct and unmistakable sound of a kettle boiling water, he frowns thoughtfully at the single minion puttering about the space. With a small noise, the boy scurries away. Bond raises his eyebrows at the empty space left behind, unimpressed. A brave new world, indeed.

He licks his lips, pressing them together to stop himself from smiling at the thought of the contents of his pockets. He retrieves a nondescript mug from the cupboard in the alcove, glancing around conscientiously before retrieving a small packet from his pocket, swiftly emptying its contents into the mug.

The kettle whistles, insisting on being heard, and James hushes it absently, reminding himself that he must only ever talk to inanimate objects when he is alone. He fills the mug to the brim, and turns to the other cupboards in the space, scanning for tea. It’s the fourth cabinet that reveals it, and he blinks, mildly intimidated – never before has he seen so many different iterations of Earl Grey tea. 

He quirks his eyebrow, and admits to himself that he is not especially surprised, now that he thinks twice about it. He chooses one without much particular thought; any one will do, though he’d never say as much to the Quartermaster. Waiting for the leaves to brew, he retrieves a stirring stick from near the French press, and carefully stirs the contents of the mug until any visible trace of the substance he’d added is gone. He eyes the steaming mug, and inhales, satisfied after a moment that he is unable to detect a trace of the drug.

He nods to himself, and gingerly picks up the teacup, chuckling. Presuming that he is not caught out, this could be the most devious stunt of his entire career–which really was saying something, he thinks to himself.

Q-Branch is upon him almost before he realises it – but, he supposes, there’s something to be said for being allowed to re-learn one’s way around when one returns from the dead. The Branch is unmistakable – the light is too harsh, as if nothing can be left in the dark here. As if there are no shadows, nowhere to hide, nothing to be hidden, nothing to conceal.

Suddenly, he feels abashed about his intentions. But the part of him with no self-preservation–a rather large part, if he’s honest with himself–urges him forward, down the stairs, rather as if he is descending instead into the belly of a beast.

He ignores the open stares of the minions as he passes by their cubicles – at least, the open stares of those who aren’t engrossed in gutting some helpless piece of technology. Bond thinks vaguely that gutting tech is usually his job, but no matter.

He knows he’s reaching the heart of the branch as the space opens up. Tables sprawl before him; large screens are on the far wall, and the veins and arteries of what he recognizes to be London shift lazily across them. In the middle of it all, in the middle of the beating heart, is Q, poised–rather predictably so–over his computer, which Bond suspects to be the Quartermaster’s lifeblood. He pauses for a moment to observe the young man, thoughtfully.

“Double-oh seven, I can’t imagine what you might be up to, but I know for a fact that it shouldn’t have anything to do with me. Please do think twice before you attempt to stir up any trouble in my branch. It will not be received kindly.”

Bond blinks, and looks into the cup of tea in his hands. “Nonsense, Q. Can’t an agent simply come to thank his Quartermaster for his work?”

“I doubt it, particularly if the agent in question is James Bond,” Q replies, without missing a beat, not even pausing in his typing.

Bond winces. “But what if the agent in question comes bearing tea?”

The agent is pleased to see the young man visibly straighten. Q shifts his shoulders, twisting lithely before turning deliberately to face Bond. He folds his hands across his chest. “Now, that would be a different story.”

The corners of Bond’s mouth turn up, pleasantly wrinkling his weathered face. “Depending on the tea, of course?”

“But of course,” the Quartermaster nods.

“Would an Earl Grey blend from my travels suit?”

“Beautifully, as a matter of fact,” the Quartermaster says, finally smiling and striding toward the agent. “If I didn’t know better, I might say you know me, Bond.”

Bond tilts his head to one side. “I don’t know if I’d go quite that far. I certainly know your voice. But you?” He shakes his head decisively. 

“I quite agree,” Q says mildly.

“In fact,” Bond goes on, “MI-6 seems to agree that you’ve been quite inscrutable during your time here so far.”

The Quartermaster purses his lips. “It is only my third day. I never thought I’d need to remind you, and certainly not so soon, but we are an espionage agency, and as such, I thought that you of all people would find it appropriate to keep one’s private life just that–private.”

“Indeed,” Bond nods.

“Or perhaps, as your antics in the field would suggest, you might find it completely inappropriate. To my great chagrin, you do have a stubborn recklessness about you.”

“It’s merely one of my many charms,” Bond replies. 

“Perhaps,” Q murmurs, eyeing the agent skeptically.

Bond meets his gaze for a moment. “Tea?” he asks, proffering the cup, and for some reason he can’t quite put his finger on, he feels more like a fairytale villain with a poisoned apple than an agent with mischievous intentions.

“Cheers,” Q replies, wrapping his hands around the mug, and smiling appreciatively, if somewhat guardedly, at Bond. The agent watches carefully as his Quartermaster closes his eyes, and inhales, before pressing his lips to the mug and sipping at the tea.

A moment later, Q beams at him, and suddenly, quite vividly, Bond knows exactly why he feels like a villain with a poisoned apple.


	9. The Reason We Struggle With Insecurity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly before the agent's disappearance, Bond and Q enjoy a peaceful afternoon. Though 'peaceful' is always a bit of a misnomer, as far as these two are concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was curious, I had named Nikki, one of Q’s two cats, for the ‘Darling Nikki’ of Prince’s song. Seemed a relevant piece of trivia, as we lost Prince just recently. “I knew a girl named Nikki; I guess you could say she was a sex fiend…” You can probably guess the apparent origin of Alastair's name, although I swear on all that is holy that I had the name in mind before we were given details about London Spy last fall.
> 
> I know I've been terrible recently. I'm aware that I owe you a couple weeks' worth of chapters - got caught up with uni work and this fell by the wayside. You're all wonderful and beautiful and I appreciate your patience.

Soft, miniature, velvety toes pad across his chest. His dream is soft and all in shades of pastel – some simpler time, where he takes long baths and laughs softly and the champagne dances in his mouth. Some simpler time where a small animal is with him in the bath, digging its claws into his abdomen – just viciously enough to wake him.

Blinking, Q comes to, sharply, twisting up, disoriented. Nikki lets out a dissatisfied yowl as she tumbles away from him, down the bed. Q holds his head in his palm for a moment – he can hear his partner moving about in the other room. Q presses his lips together. “Christ, Bond,” he calls into the other room, all the while hating the sharpness in his voice.

There’s a clatter, and not a moment later, his husband’s face appears in the doorway of their bedroom. The agent is blinking in mild bewilderment. “That’s James, to you,” he scolds, a touch of both playfulness and hesitance in his voice. “I should hope we’re familiar enough for first names by now. Don’t make me tickle you until you’ve successfully calculated the hours we’ve been married. I know you can,” the double-oh says, tilting his head to one side. “Dear.” It’s an afterthought – soft, patient.

Q turns away, feeling unable to look at his partner, embarrassed. Across the room, Nikki stares intently at him in all her ebony litheness, tail zipping back and forth, seeming largely oblivious to the tension in the room. Q knows all too well that Bond sees right through him – and there’s no help for it, despite his being aware of the idiosyncrasy: the Quartermaster, without fail, reverts to more formal names when vexed.

Bond shifts forward, poised to move towards his lover at the slightest encouragement. “Tell me,” he demands softly.

To Q, the distance between them feels like it might as well already be an ocean’s width. “It’s just,” he harrumphs, aimlessly digging his hand through his tangled locks.

“Just?” Bond prompts, moving rather fluidly into the space, a moment later, tipping up Q’s chin and staring pointedly into Q’s deep brown eyes. “Darling, we don’t deal in ‘justs’ in this household, you know that.”

Q bites the inside of his lip, casting his eyes away from Bond. Heat rises in his cheeks as he makes a face. “You weren’t meant to let me sleep through my alarm,” he blurts. “You were meant to wake me if I slept through my alarm,” he protests, gesturing pointlessly, embarrassed to sound as petulant as he feels.

James blinks in surprise, and his large palms shift to cradle his Quartermaster’s face in his hands. The double-oh’s brow unfurls, and understanding clears the frown from his features. “Ah, this,” he murmurs, and folds his lover’s body against his own. 

“Darling,” he whispers, kissing the crown of his husband’s head, pressing kisses across his forehead and jaw between words. “Why,” he begins, “would I rob myself,” he continues, brushing Q’s hair out of his face, “of the pleasure?” he frowns for a moment, before shaking his head, deciding, “No, that’s not correct."

He kisses the tip of Q’s nose. “Of the immense pleasure, rather,” he kisses down the Quartermaster’s face, “of watching you sleep so peacefully?” 

Q grimaces, looking flustered. “I take no pleasure in sleeping through our last hours together,” he protests. “And what’s more,” he adds, half-brandishing an index finger in the double-oh’s direction, “is that you know it.”

“Nonsense,” the double-oh rumbles dismissively. “Variety is the spice of life. There’s a first time for everything, isn’t that what you’ve been saying to me, only for the past several years?” He blinks innocently, but changes tacks as Q is glaring and having none of it. “Besides, I thought you deserved breakfast in bed, for once.”

“I hardly think you should choose the morning of your departure to begin paying attention to my mind-numbing truisms,” the Quartermaster says disdainfully, and though his voice is posh, the words are cutting.

“Afternoon,” Bond corrects, with a nudge at the Quartermaster’s shoulder.

Q’s stomach sinks. Had he really slept that late?

But Bond only laughs heartily, his entire chest shaking, at what must be the Quartermaster’s visible stress. In turn, Q scowls and abstractly considers divorce. He absolutely hates the days that James leaves on his missions. 

Days like these – inevitably, it seems - the agent is always so smug and the cats are always so oblivious and it always rains and he can’t make a good cup of tea to save his life and the only thing on the telly are those re-runs of EastEnders and there’s usually some tourist, probably an American, blithely asking for directions and they’re totally, blissfully unaware of the fact that Q’s lover, his husband, his partner till-death-do-they-part-but-hopefully-later-not-sooner, has gone off to risk his life and get his adrenalin rush for the next month, in the name of international security. And the blasted American in question is always blissfully unaware that the location of Q’s partner is infinitely more important than that of Baker Street.

Q definitely, absolutely hates the days that James leaves on his missions. He huffs, and turns away. “I’ll just go and splash some water on my face,” he says roughly, “and we can leave for the airport.” He shifts, moving to rise, but James holds him fast.

“You’ll do no such thing,” the agent growls, a twinkle in his eye. 

But his lover’s amusement vexes Q even more, and the analyst presses his lips into a thin line. “Bond,” he bites out, “I know you take an odd pleasure in leaving me, but I do not appreciate your particular brand of sadism this morning – ”

The rest of his words are smothered and lost as the double-oh tackles him; the two fall back into the mattress. James licks and bites at his lover’s ear, murmuring, “The flight was pushed back. I’ve got you ‘til tonight.” He kisses at his lover’s neck, but Q pulls back, glaring.

“Bastard,” he curses, eyebrows furrowed. “And just when were you planning on sharing this relevant piece of information with me?”

The double oh tries not to smile. “I’ve been trying to tell you for quite awhile now, but it’s difficult to get a word in edgewise, or to make you see sense, when you’re stroppy and pouting.”

Q sniffs. “This line of conversation is not endearing you to me – not in the least.”

James wiggles his eyebrows, kissing across Q’s collarbone. “Perhaps this will,” he says into his lover’s skin, kissing his way down, down, and Q’s toes curl…

“Oh no, you don’t,” the Quartermaster protests, bouncing and leaping out of bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets. He trips, there’s a markedly feline howl from somewhere beneath him, and his breath leaves him as he thuds into the carpet. Nikki bolts from the room.

“Oh, dear,” Q hears the double-oh purr from above him, and he scowls at James, who is leaning over the edge of the bed, watching unconcernedly. “Perhaps that will teach you to see things my way.”

With as much dignity as he can manage, Q furls the bedsheet around his body, and rises, turning dismissively. “I daresay it will not,” he replies stiltedly, and strides across the master bedroom, closing himself in the bath, deliberately ignoring his husband’s chuckling from the other side of the door.

Q studies himself in the mirror for a long while, expression inscrutable, before there’s a tender knock on the door. “Mm?” he asks.

The reply, when it comes, is soft, and there’s a touch of apology in Bond’s words. “I’ve made breakfast, when you’re ready.”

“Cheers,” Q mumbles, and doesn’t move again until he hears the double-oh shift away.

A short while later – because, let’s be honest, as irritated as Q may have been, he isn’t going to waste any more time – he emerges, toweling down his curly locks, taming them into some semblance of order – though he still wonders vaguely whether there might be a small animal nesting somewhere between his ears.

“Ah, and sleeping beauty emerges from her slumber,” Bond announces softly, from his perch on the kitchen counter. Q glares, only marginally less annoyed. 

“If I find out that you’ve delivered that line to any of your ladies of the hour–and I mean even just one–within the past ten years, we will have words,” Q threatens, folding his robe more tightly around him.

“I left the kettle on for you,” Bond offers helpfully, carefully dodging the subject.

“It had best be boiling,” Q mutters darkly. He goes to the cupboard, but hesitates when his Scrabble mug is missing from its usual spot of honor. “James…” he says slowly, swiveling.

The double-oh reaches behind him, moving Q’s Scrabble mug into view. Steam wafts over the edges of the cup. James smirks, enjoying the way Q is watching him intently. He holds up an index finger. “I have one condition.”

“Mmm?” Q blinks, reaching down and gathering Alastair into his arms.

James wrinkles his nose. “I was going to ask for a kiss, but not with the cat.”

Q straightens his spectacles. “Bond, you are really not earning any points with me at the moment. The cat has a name,” he needles his lover, cradling Alastair closer. “And we are a package deal.”

“I know,” James sighs. “It’s a good thing that I love you unconditionally, then.”

Q nods faintly, pointedly not addressing Bond’s comment. He knows he’s being petulant. But that self-awareness isn’t going to stop him from being petulant. “I’m going to kiss you,” he says decisively, “and Alastair is coming with me.”

“If you get Alastair’s fur in your tea, I will not be held – ”

A moment later, his husband’s lips are on his, all fresh passion and intimate familiarity. Q had always had a knack for kissing Bond as though it would be the last time. Perhaps because there was never really any guarantee that it wouldn’t be the last time.

The Quartermaster pulls away for air, and between them, Alastair mewls. Patiently, Bond wraps his arms around his partner, and Q rests his head against his husband’s collarbone. “Promise me you aren’t going to do anything stupid.”

“You know I won’t.”

“Promise me you won’t drink yourself to death.”

“I would never.”

“And that you won’t try to seduce all the women in Venice.”

“I only have eyes for you, Q.”

“Promise you won’t take unnecessary risks.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And that you’ll be home before Christmas.”

“Absolutely. I’ll bring back mistletoe.”

The soft words, however sincerely they resound in the quiet room, seem to fall flat. Q knows that he asks the impossible. He knows that Bond is lying through his teeth, and Bond knows this, too. But the ritual – the countless number of promises, inevitably broken – is theirs. Between the secrets and the espionage and the subterfuge, Bond and his Quartermaster have carved out a space and called it their own.

“Bond, I’m not sure that mistletoe grows in Italy.”

“Well,” Bond scoffs, pulling back. “You’re the Quartermaster here, you’re meant to know these things.”

Q turns his nose up. “I hardly think that’s meant to be my area of expertise.”

“Isn’t every area your area of expertise?” Bond arches an eyebrow.

Q sighs heavily. “James, if you would rather I spend my time exploring varieties of festive plants…”

Bond straightens, tilting his head to one side. “Do you suppose mistletoe is combustible?”

“I suspect that’s my cue to divorce you and not look back,” Q murmurs, inhaling deeply. “You are utterly incorrigible.”

Bond shakes with laughter, and Alastair whips his tail back and forth across the agent, unhappy to be disrupted. With an unbalanced mewl, he leaps out of their arms, skittering away into the adjoining room. 

Sobering, Bond moves to stand at the other side of the island in the kitchen. Q doesn’t say anything, but he hates the distance. It only reminds him of the greater distance to come. For what will undoubtedly not be the last time, he asks himself why he couldn’t have fallen for a predictable fellow with a safe, boring, eight-to-five job.

And then the light from the large kitchen window glints off Bond’s blue eyes, as the double-oh smiles fondly at him, crow’s feet around his eyes. For a long moment, rather a small eternity, Q doesn’t wonder anything.

“Actually,” Bond says, “I have favors to ask you, too.”

Q nods, pulling his eyebrows together. “Go ahead, then,” he shrugs, cradling his cup of tea against his chest. He draws his hair back from his face.

“Try not to adopt another cat while I’m away.”

“Now, see here, James–you know my policy about strays.”

“And promise you won’t go for curry without me.”

“Mmmphmmm,” – it’s a noise made into his teacup.

“And you are not to watch Silent Witness without me.”

“Erm…look, about that.”

“You are absolutely not to miss me so terribly that you forget to eat. I’ve put Eve and R on stand-by.”

Q makes a face, and shrugs helplessly, looking even smaller and feeling even smaller than usual. “James,” he whispers, “You know I can’t make you any promises.” Their little game always feels foolish to Q when the tables are turned on him.

Bond nods curtly. “Then let’s hear no more about it, darling. Come along,” he says, offering his hand to his partner. “Let’s get you dressed and go enjoy the weather. I’ve tickets for us to skate at Somerset House.”

“That sounds like a dreadful idea.”

“I know. You’re quite dangerous enough on just your own two feet. Don’t worry, though. I’ll catch you.”

Q cringes at the thought of having to be rescued, however mundanely. “That’s just what I’m afraid of.”


	10. Tit for Tat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond atones for his sins, in his way.

It’s far too late in the evening for someone to be knocking on Q’s door, and with every heavy echoing thud, the Quartermaster’s head throbs unpleasantly, a vicious reminder of the nonsense he’s left behind. He sighs, tucking his throw under his chin and shifting to make himself more comfortable on the couch.  


If he ignores it, then whoever it is will go away. He will be left in peace – and that’s all he wants. He’s not sure what he’s going to do for work, now that he’s left MI-6, even with a glowing recommendation from M. But whatever he chooses, he knows he doesn’t want to work with unhinged sadistic sociopaths. Three days at the SIS – and no more than three days, heaven help him – was enough, to be sure.  


Admittedly, it wasn’t going to look very good on his CV, even alongside M’s lovely letter, but surely anything would be an improvement over working with James fucking Bond…  


Someone’s still knocking at his door. He closes his eyes, still feeling muddled from whatever the goddamned agent had slipped in his tea. It’s probably Darby outside his flat, from next door, wanting to make sure he was still alive. Well, that could wait. Everything could wait, as far as Q was concerned, for at least another nine hours. Possibly eleven, and maybe more.  


The knocking stops. Q relaxes, and the tension in his brow fades. Everything is fuzzy around the edges, and the heavy rain outside has been lulling him towards slumber for awhile now. Thank heaven for small mercies, like a hot cup of tea, a rainy evening, a warm blanket, a comfortable couch, no alarm to wake up to in the morning, and –  


Someone knocks again, and doesn’t stop after a polite length of time has passed. This time, it’s slow, and deliberate, like a slow tempo. Q swears, and finally rolls, his head swimming. He comes to his feet, blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon, and begins his slow shuffle toward the door.  


The knocking continues. “For Christ’s sake,” the Quartermaster spits, slurring his words, as his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. “Completely bloody unnecessary.”  


He comes to the door, and pauses, blinking until the three doorknobs before him swim and become one. That’s odd. He’s going to have to have that looked at. In the morning. Not now.  


There’s another knock, and he growls at nothing in particular. “Darby,” he calls through the door of his flat, swinging it open. He rests his head on the doorframe, eyes closed. “I swear on all that is good in this world, it had better be life or death, because if it isn’t…” he trails off, blinking.  


“Sorry to disappoint. It’s only me,” says the aforementioned James fucking Bond, with a catlike smile. “If it’s a bad time, I won’t go away.”  


“You’re incorrigible,” Q murmurs, pressing his lips together. “You drugged me and had your fun – can’t you leave me to my misery now?”  


“Afraid not. But,” Bond protests, “I brought an olive branch.”  


“Allow me a healthy skepticism concerning your expertise in combining various drugs and medications.” Q rubs a hand across his face. His skin feels fuzzier than he remembered.  


Bond hesitates. “If I grant you that,” he bargains, “will you let me in?”  


Q sighs heavily, feeling as though more than breath is leaving his body. “If only because I need to lie down again.” He rocks away from the doorframe, thudding dully back to his refuge on the couch.  


“I would apologize,” Bond begins, and Q doesn’t like his playful tone, “but I’m not sorry.”  


Q twists up his face. “Far be it from me to expect James fucking Bond to say he’s sorry. Since you’re here,” he grumbles, “why don’t you make yourself useful, and put on the kettle?”  


“I can hardly believe you trust me to make tea in your flat after today.”  


Q rests his pounding head in his hands. “There’s no need to make matters any more confusing than they already are. Besides, you’ve done your worst already. We both know that if you lethally poisoned me, M would have your head.”  


“That…might not be as bad as the verbal lashing I expect from you when you recover,” Bond muses. “Which way to the kitchen?”  


Q gestures vaguely towards an open doorway. It occurs to him that he didn’t realize the world had turned sideways in the last five minutes, and a long moment later, he remembers that he has laid down.  


Bond’s voice echoes off the thin walls of the flat. “One would think you didn’t work for MI-6,” he calls.  


“I won’t, after this,” Q replies.  


“No, really,” Bond protests. Q notices that his voice sounds closer – so he tilts his head, and he can see Bond in the doorway, looking at him oddly. “Your flat is rather small. I thought a Quartermaster’s salary was a living wage?”  


“Tea,” Q reminds him insistently. “And I thought you knew that I’d been on the job for hardly a week. I haven’t yet had the benefit of a first check, nor am I likely to now.”  


Q can hear the kettle beginning to whirr and pop – it’s a comforting sound, and he exhales, feeling calmer already. Half the joy of making tea is in the ritual itself. The other half is in the warm feeling that slowly spreads across him when he’s midway through a cup. He hopes that Bond doesn’t want to talk anymore; Q can barely think, much less tangle with a double-oh right now.  


He wonders what the agent put in his tea that afternoon, and at the memory, humiliation and hot shame course through him. His memories are in puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together.  


One: the world spinning around him as he opens his eyes – the bulk of Q-Branch is clustered above him, all wide eyes and furrowed brows. Why are they looking at him? Why is the floor so cold? Why does his head feel like someone took the blunt end of an ax to it?  


Two: sluggishly reaching toward a pen, he instead sends a large stack of files cascading to the floor. He can only stare at the blur of paperwork. He’s supposed to pick it up, but he can’t move. Perhaps he will look at it from here. Moving is taking more effort than he remembered. Perhaps he will work on the floor instead of on the desk…  


Three: M’s voice, cutting like a diamond across ice, as if from very far away. “Quartermaster, you are dismissed for the day. Tanner, call a cab and see that he gets home. Bond, with me. Now.” Q nods slowly, thinking vaguely that he is not cut out for this much office drama. If he survives this, he will resign.  


Q is called back to the present by Bond’s voice. “Here we are,” the double-oh murmurs, and there’s the sound of ceramic on wood as he gingerly sets down Q’s mug on the coffee table.  


“Rather good of you,” the Quartermaster mumbles, before he remembers which devil he’s let in his flat.  


“It was the least I could do,” the agent replied glibly, as if he hadn’t been responsible for almost doing his Quartermaster in. “Though I don’t suppose you have anything stronger?”  


“Goodness, no,” Q replied, glancing at the steam coming off the tea before resting his eyes again. “Alcohol encourages bad behavior. Especially, I imagine, where the double-oh program is concerned.”  


Bond carefully takes a seat in the chair sitting perpendicular to the couch Q has draped himself over. It’s spindly and Bond isn’t sure whether it will support his weight, but it’s the only other place to sit. The Quartermaster spans the length of the couch – Bond thinks fleetingly that the young man must have very long legs. The chair creaks as Bond lets his full weight settle in it.  


“Mind the quilt,” Q murmurs, without looking at Bond. “It was my grandmother’s.”  


“Of course,” Bond replies softly, his attention drawn to the crimson paisley-patterned quilt. He hadn’t given it much thought at first – why survey an area when he wasn’t being paid for his time after all? But now the mundane object took on a more symbolic meaning. It had been passed down for at least two generations, and now the nearly-unconscious Quartermaster was insisting that double-oh seven not shred it or otherwise violate it. That seemed to indicate something unexpected about the young man, who, in all other circumstances, seemed fascinated with technology and the wonders of the mechanical world in the twenty-first century.  


Turning this over in his mind, he looked back at Q. He needed to keep the man awake – after all, James might not have been strictly on duty as such, but he was there on strict orders from M. She’d made it personal – she’d threatened to have his DB-5 taken away and used as scrap metal.  


James Bond had no intention of finding out how serious this threat was.  


He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t have taken our Quartermaster for a prohibitionist.”  


The Quartermaster’s reply is a weary one, and he doesn’t seem interested in picking up the conversational thread. “Former Quartermaster,” he corrects, and sighs deeply, curling up again. 

A moment passes, but Bond becomes antsy again. “Shouldn’t your cats be running around here somewhere?” he presses. 

“Leave them alone,” Q slurs. 

“In fact, I like cats," Bond counters, far too happily for Q's peace of mind. "How old are yours?” 

Q harrumphs. “What do you want, Bond? Haven’t you had your fun?” 

“Actually, I want you to drink your tea,” the double-oh replied, without hesitation. “I know you haven’t any reason to trust me but the antidote to the drug I gave you is in that cup. You’ll be dismantling the world’s cyber systems in less than half an hour.”  


Q pulled his blanket a little further up, obscuring the better part of his face. “I don’t think I can move,” he muttered, a touch of resentment in his voice. “And it’s your fault.”  


“I suppose I deserve that,” Bond smirked, trying not to sound self-satisfied. “But really, Q, you’re only allowed so much self-pity. It’s time to be reasonable.”  


Q stilled, and at this, he pulled himself up on his forearms, and stared at Bond, his gaze unwavering. “Let me get this straight,” he said, floundering for his spectacles on the coffee table. Donning them, he blinked owlishly at the double-oh. “You want me to be reasonable.”  


At this, Bond had the good sense and self-preservation to look mildly self-conscious. He couldn’t have said what it was, but a chill ran through him at the Quartermaster’s piercing stare. Silently, he reached forward and pushed the cup of tea closer to Q.  


Q pressed his lips together. “Devil take you, James fucking Bond,” he growled. It took a herculean effort to reach for his mug and to pick it up. He needed the strength of Atlas to hold it level as he brought it to his lips. And swallowing felt like a feat he had not performed in centuries. But stubbornness and determination are not traits to be discounted, especially as far as one’s own well-being is concerned.  


They sit in silence, the double-oh and the Quartermaster, as different as North and West on the face of a compass. Bond is old-world, from his manner of speaking to the cut of his suit. There is an energy to him even when he sits in perfect stillness, as if he could leap into action at a moment’s notice. He is coiled, wound, pure tension sculpted into the guise of mid-century British masculinity.  


But if James Bond is an arrow pulled tight on a bowstring, Q is as still and as inconspicuous as a target five hundred yards away. Q could sit on that couch for centuries and feel no need to move. Everything about him is carefully considered, weighed, turned over, and reflected, before action is taken. Nothing about him would suggest that he is mortal – this is a man who acts as if he has all the time in the world, and more.  


Q sips his tea, and James wishes that there was vodka in the flat. Minutes pass by, unnoticed.  


The Quartermaster finally widens his eyes and blinks, beginning to feel like he could do simple sums again. “Double-oh seven,” he begins, “I may never forgive you for that stunt for the rest of my days.”  


Bond leans forward in the spindly wicker chair, amusement tickling him. “That’s more like it.”  


But Q only shakes his head slowly. “I’m just beginning. It doesn’t matter, though, because when you leave this flat, I never want to see you again, and I never want to discover that I’m being spied on by you again.”  


James grimaces. “I’m afraid I may not be able to make you that promise.”  


The Quartermaster puts his hands out, making a firm gesture. He is unwilling to bend on this one – he has suffered more than enough humiliation at the hands of this man, and all in less than twenty-four hours. “I didn’t say we were negotiating, double-oh seven.”  


“I’m not either,” the agent shrugged helplessly.  


Q wasn’t listening. “After I terminate my employment on Monday morning, there should be no reason why MI-5, MI-6, or any of the other entities in the SIS should have any interest in my movements. I have demonstrated my loyalty as a British citizen and I have had enough.”  


Bond pressed his lips together. “Q, I’m afraid that Her Majesty’s government simply does not see that as an option.”  


“And whyever not?”  


“Put simply, Q, you are an asset – far more of one than I calculated, but an asset all the same. You know…as well as any man…that there can be repercussions when turnover is high in an organization – especially one as simultaneously high- and low-profile as MI-6.”  


The Quartermaster was silent for a long moment. Buying time, he finished his tea – and it was there, in the bottom of his cup, that it came to him. “I see,” he said pensively.  


Bond leaned back into the dark chintz fabric, and the chair creaked adaptively under his weight. “Well, good,” he said, resting his hands on the arm of the chair.  


Very deliberately, Q set his mug down. He fidgeted with it for a moment, turning it around on the small table in front of them. Then, he looked Bond in the eye. “I see that what you did today reflects poorly not only on you, but also on the legitimacy of the double-oh program as a whole. There could be consequences not only for you but also for the rest of the double-ohs. MI-6 does not exist to draw attention to itself…despite…” he hesitated, “…some evidence to the contrary.”  


Bond’s eyes had narrowed, but otherwise, he was as inscrutable as usual. “I see that you’ve recovered your faculties,” he surmised delicately, moving to stand. There wasn’t much floor space between the towering bookshelf across the way and the coffee table in the middle of the room, but Bond crossed the flat nimbly all the same.  


Q gestured at his empty teacup. “Take this to the sink on your way out, would you?”  


With a nod of assent, James reached down for it. As he was turning away, Q reached out, his reflexes surprisingly fast, and caught the double-oh’s wrist.  


Bond stilled, not looking back at the Quartermaster.  


“Double-oh seven, if I stay on at MI-6, I will not soon forget that you owe me a debt.” He paused. “One day, I will ask you to answer for what you owe me.”  


Bond lowered his head, studying the hardwood floors. “Get some rest, Quartermaster. Britain will need you Monday morning.”  


Q released his grip on the agent, and a moment later, Bond stepped away. Q heard the sound of ceramic on metal in the sink, but he didn’t look over to watch the agent leave. Q flinched at the sound as the door to his flat slammed shut behind Bond. He turned his hands over and studied his palms, wondering what the bloody hell had just happened.


	11. Out of the Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond takes advantage of a peaceful evening to break bad news, and turns the tables on his partner.

“I know it isn’t caviar on the French Riviera or wild salmon in Alaska or authentic pho in Vietnam, but…” Q shrugs helplessly. “Next time I’ll do better, I promise.” He dries his hands of soapy water with one of their fluffy white kitchen towels.

Bond glares playfully. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times – I could never blame you for getting distracted from cooking with work from Six. Work before play,” James reminds his lover.

“Well,” Q hesitates, “Most of the time, it comes before play.” He smirks.

Bond whisks the towel out of his lover’s hand, and with a hard thwack, smacks it hard across his Quartermaster’s arse.

Q blushes, and glares. “There may be one too many cooks in this kitchen,” he mutters.

“To be sure,” Bond retorts. “So what’s takeaway tonight?”

“Curry, from your favorite place down the lane. Vindaloo for me and tikka masala for you.”

“And garlic naan, I hope?”

“Of course, darling,” Q smiles, reaching out to squeeze the double-oh’s hand. “I expect it’ll be here shortly after I finish cleaning up the mess I made in here.”

Bond made a noise of acknowledgment – one Q liked to think of as one of James’ many Scottish noises. His husband was an Englishman through and through, but his youth spent north of Glen Coe meant that the double-oh had a number of mannerisms from the old country, only some of which had faded with time.

“I didn’t want to say anything at first,” James commented, “but it does smell as though something’s died in here.”

Q chuckled to himself, with a noise that sounded more like a sneeze, elbow-deep in soap bubbles and dirty dishes. “It will be remarkable if I can salvage this pot. Sorry, James – your elaborate dinner will have to be cooked another day.”

James leaned up against the countertop next to his husband. “You know,” he began, “it really isn’t necessary for you to take on so much of the meal preparation.”

“I know,” Q nods, eyes trained on the fairy liquid.

“Please don’t take this personally. I know you’ve always wanted to be competent in the kitchen, but I hate seeing you so frustrated, and not just in some arenas of cooking, but let’s be honest, darling…learning to boil water for spaghetti was a struggle for a long time.”

Q cringes at the memory, and a flush rises in his cheeks. James notices that the tips of his lover’s ears have turned pink.

“Darling,” James murmurs in a low voice, “I think the world of your spaghetti. It’s grand with broccoli and courgettes.”

Bond feels warm all over as a small smile hovers around Q’s lips.

“In fact, I think it’s so good that I believe I could eat your spaghetti for the rest of my life and never want for anything else. I don’t know what you do to the freshly grated parmesan but mine never comes out quite like yours does.”

But Q presses his lips together; his husband may well be serious but he’s unaccustomed to receiving compliments on his cooking. There’s a part of him that wonders if, even after three years of marriage, Bond is just being polite to spare his feelings.

“Please don’t patronize me,” he says quietly.

Bond reaches out. “I don’t mean to,” he says sincerely.

“I know,” Q says, with a shake of his head, “And you haven’t, but what I want to say is, please don’t.”

Bond nods, understanding in his eyes. He touches his lover’s shoulder and squeezes lightly, fondly. “I see that almost everything you’ve done in our home do is out of affection and consideration for us. I just hate to see you knocking your head against a wall on this one.”

Q turns off the sink and turns toward Bond. He folds his hands across his stomach and studies his fingertips. Outside, a siren wails down the street, and peoples’ lives go on. He opens his mouth to speak, there’s a small sound, and then the buzzer in their flat goes off.

Bond watches carefully as Q seizes the opportunity to walk away from the conversation, drifting towards their front door without a glance back at his partner. The Quartermaster raises his voice, managing to say without words that he’s done with this conversation. “That’ll be tea, I expect,” he says conversationally, as though they haven’t just been tiptoeing around what it means to be married and gay and working for the SIS and navigating domestic gender roles.

“Of course,” Bond murmurs. He turns away from the kitchen as Q speaks to the delivery boy, striding slowly towards the windowed wall of their flat. All of London, decadent and deceptive, is lit up beneath them. He wonders at the pleasures of a less complicated life. Wonders where he’d be right now, if he weren’t married, if his husband wasn’t trying to please him and hurting himself in the process. He wonders if he should even be contemplating such things.

Q calls to him from across the room, his casual tone betraying nothing. “James, I’m putting wet food out for the cats, and then we can sit down and enjoy this. They brought papadums.”

Bond clears his throat, pulled away from the scene outside. “Good on them. I’ll be there in a moment.” He watches, unable to tear his eyes off his lover as Q coos at the cats, calling them in for their second and final meal of the day – much to their dismay. The double-oh watches as Q bends down, whispering sweet nothings to them as he spoons dinner into their respective bowls. James tilts his head to one side as it occurs to him that Q whispers sweet nothings to him in much the same way.

He’s often wondered at this, whether he should be insulted because Q talks to him the same way he talks to domesticated animals. He’s not sure whether it’s because it’s the most comfortable conclusion – but he can’t shake the feeling that, despite evidence to the contrary, Q talks to him and to Nikki and Alastair the same way because of his deep affection for the three of them. Bond blinks thoughtfully, watchfully. In many ways, perhaps in more ways than James realizes, Q is a caretaker.

It isn’t until later, over vindaloo and tikka masala, the cats watching intently from a safe distance, that James says casually, “You’d think that after three years, we’d have ironed out the problems that tend to devil us.”

Q snorts, and James looks up at him in mild surprise. The Quartermaster only shakes his head. “Heavens, I never think of it that way.”

“Oh?”

“Good lord, no. Pass the tamarind, would you?”

“There you are.”

“Cheers. Ah, but no, James, I tend not to take that perspective. I don’t think of us tackling our issues one at a time until we solve all our problems.”

Bond is watching the Quartermaster intently now. “I’m getting the uncomfortable feeling that this is a conversation that perhaps we should have had already.”

Q tilts his head to one side, and folds his legs up underneath him. “Perhaps so,” he allows. “What’s wrong with now, though?”

James grimaces. “Nothing, per se. It’s just,” he says, taking a gulp of his chai, “I’m wondering if I could have been a better partner to you, had we discussed this more explicitly.”

The Quartermaster scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. It isn’t just you in this relationship. Never mind that,” he insists, waving the idea away with his fork. “In truth, James, I have no expectation that we will ever solve all of our problems.”

James squints. “I thought you were the optimist here.”

Q nods agreeably. “Oh, but I am. Give me a moment.” He sets down his fork, and folds his hands on the table. “Promise you won’t take any of this personally?”

The double-oh scrutinizes his partner, hesitating. If this were the field, he would know precisely what to do. Matters of the heart are less his strong suit. “I’ll do my best,” he replies slowly. While they’ve been married for three years and together for even longer, Bond sometimes still has a difficult time predicting what his lover will do or say next.

“More naan first, James. Cheers.” There’s a moment of quiet, as the two dig in and settle down; the day is done. Their work might never be complete, but for the moment, a dinner together is a rare sanctuary in time. And Q is going to muck it up. “Now, look, I anticipate that we will spend the rest of our lives in conflict with each other.”

Bond’s brow furrows. “What about this makes you the optimistic one?”

The analyst sighs, gesturing with his fork. “If you had just one ounce of patience…” he threatens, with a warning glare. “I think what pales in comparison to the number of arguments or disagreements we may have, no matter how high that number may be, is...how we cope, and how we move forward.”

James smirks. “Are you suggesting I shouldn’t fuck you six ways into Sunday after we have a row? Are you really going to tell me you don’t care for that?”

Q purses his lips. “I’m not saying I don’t enjoy it, but - ”

“Does this mean I should no longer take you over my knee if you’ve been particularly catty? I thought that was your idea, anyway…” James muses.

The Quartermaster flushes a deep pink color, more pink than the strawberry lassi across the table that will be their dessert later. “No, that’s not what I - ”

But Bond relents. “I take your meaning, darling. I’m not quite the ignoramus you take me for. I wonder, though, can we apply these conflict resolution skills to the DB-5 incident I’d quite forgotten to mention?”

Q lays down his fork, and squints at his husband. “I beg your pardon.” It’s not a question.

“I’m quite happy to be perfectly open with you about it, darling, as long as we continue to bear in mind those lovely strategies. What was it now, turning towards, learning to cope, moving forward? Refresh my memory, tell me more…”

Q straightens, pushes his dinner aside, and folds his hands, suddenly as intimidating as any investigating agent conducting an interrogation on national security. “Details. Now.”


End file.
